


The Dancer

by Julilla



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: 9th century England, Ballet, F/M, I know that sounds weird, Self-taught dance, Viking Raids, just go with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:12:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julilla/pseuds/Julilla
Summary: On a raid in the North of England, the Ragnarssons come across a young peasant woman who fascinates them by dancing in a way they've never seen before.





	1. Nothing for You

**Author's Note:**

> Note that my main character's style of dance is going to be mostly balletic, even though this is taking some liberties given that ballet did not yet exist at the time. Do your best to suspend your disbelief. Obviously, she's not going to be doing any pointe work; she's not Marie Taglioni.  
> I will also be using ballet terminology to describe her steps; if you are unfamiliar with it, I recommend going to the American Ballet Theatre's dictionary page to learn what each term means. Here's the link: http://www.abt.org/education/dictionary/  
> There's going to be some violent and/or sexually violent content here, none of which I condone.  
> This fic is a bit of weird idea, I know, but let me know if you like it!
> 
> Some Icelandic (passing for Old Norse) in this chapter.  
> Ertu hræddur? - Are you afraid?  
> þú ert minn - You are mine

They broke in the door, and she didn’t even hear it.

When she was dancing like that, all she could hear was the roaring in her ears. That, and her own breath, rasping in and out, in and out.

She didn’t quite see them, either. It was hard to see anything when she was doing a manege of rapid chaînés turns, especially when she was also spotting front. The world was whirling by and all she could feel was the painful ecstasy in her chest, building and building the faster she spun.

She’d been dancing in the church again, something she was assuredly not supposed to do, something so sinful her father had slapped her for it the last time he’d caught her. She still had a slight mark on her cheek a week later. 

She knew that when she left to go back to bed, the guilt of dancing like a whore in the house of God would be burning a hole through her chest. And then in a few days, her body would be craving the whirling lightness again like a starving man craves food.

She couldn’t help it. God help her, she couldn’t stop. Even if it was the house of God she was profaning.  
Even when she was a child, this had all she’d wanted to do, making up her own kind of dance, one that no one could keep up with. Something that made her feel alive. She'd been dancing in the church off and on for years now, and wherever else she could get away with it.

She didn’t want to dance in the village church, particularly, but it was the only building in her little village that had a floor made of wooden planks, the only kind of floor upon which she could turn this quickly. It was the only place where she could let go and fly.

And it was the middle of the night. She wouldn’t be caught, not this time. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. 

But she was wrong.

She ended the manege on a double step-up into a tendu back, arms crossing up into fifth before landing in a reach to the side, a delicate ending to a frantic sequence. She gasped, lungs burning, dropped out of her solitary dream world, back into the church, the illusion of flying over.

And then she heard the footsteps running towards her.

She spun around, heart jumping into her throat. Her father. Her father was going to beat her like a horse for this.

But then she saw the splintered door, saw their faces – not just one man, but four, five, more, oh God – and she screamed.

 

She wasn’t dumped on the ground with the other bodies. Instead, the man who had grabbed her held her tight to his chest, his hand tight on her neck, making it difficult to breathe properly.

The air around her was thick with screams, with smoke. She coughed on the stench of blood, tried not to whimper. The entire far half of the village seemed to be on fire, the flames seemed to be licking at the sky, greedily seeking to devour even the stars. Dozens of warriors were moving through the town, dragging any valuables and food they could find out of the houses. A man, a friend of her father's, was trying to fight one of the warriors with a fireplace poker in a pitiful, one-sided contest. In only a few seconds, the poker was knocked contemptuously from his hand, and the warrior drove his sword into the man's gut.

Then the devil kicked him aside like he was nothing. Then, he turned to the house. She saw the smile on his blood-spattered face, the red light of the fire making his eyes look black, his sword seeming to be almost coated in flames. As he plunged inside, there was a terrible scream.

She stood there transfixed, almost fascinated by the awful scene in front of her.

Then she heard a choking, gurgling little cry. The kind of cry you only hear when someone is choking to death on their own blood. She turned her head.  
It was her one of the other village girls. Bathilde, giggly, sweet little Bathilde. She was lying not two meters away. Her dress was torn down the front, revealing the marks that told a wicked story of the kind of violence that had been perpetrated on her. She wondered how many men had raped her before they’d messily cut her throat and left her to choke on her own blood.

“No!” She whispered, reaching for the girl, whose terrified eyes were not leaving her own.

The man behind her gave her throat a squeeze, and it was suddenly all she could do to keep breathing, starts swirling at the edge of her vision. 

She heard laughter from above her, and voices, unintelligible, calling out in another language, one she couldn’t understand.

Even without that, though, she’d have known exactly who they were. 

The Northmen. Pagans, rapists and murderers. Where had they come from?

Where was her mother, her father? Terror gripped her heart. Even without the hand at her throat, she’d have been choking on her own fear. She knew that she was shaking, knew that the man holding her was enjoying it from the way he ran his hand over her chest, squeezing her breast cruelly. She twisted, whimpered, heard him laugh in her ear. 

“Ertu hræddur?” he murmured. She didn’t know what he meant, but she froze, hoping that he would somehow forget about her, forget to abuse her if she kept still.

There was more shouting, more laughing. Most of the men seemed to have taken what they wanted, leaning back to watch the flames claim house after house, throwing sparks into the sky. 

A group of three warriors was walking towards her and the man moving his hands over her legs as she tried in vain to push him away. Blood covering the new men's faces, their hands. One of them gestured at her, the set of his mouth quizzical.

One of the men beside her let out a long string of unintelligible norse, making the first of the approaching men narrow his eyes. He had wild blonde hair and looked a bit younger and slenderer than the others. He held an axe in one hand, loosely, and she could tell he knew how to use it. Blood droplets stained the side of his face.

He said something to the man holding her, a cold frown beginning to play with his lips. 

Her captor shook her by the neck, making her gasp, and spat something back.

Behind them, she saw the flames spread to the church, its roof going up like kindling. 

She could tell by now that they were fighting over her, and this only made her more terrified. “Sweet Jesus, help me,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the sight of her church being consumed.

“þú ert minn” the man behind her said, seeming to speak to her again. She jerked her eyes open.

The blonde man had taken a few steps closer, hand tightening on the hilt of his axe, and said something else.

She could hear another woman screaming off in the distance, prayed to God it wasn’t her mother. Let her have gotten away, she thought. Please.

She felt the man behind her stiffen, and wondered if he was about to slit her throat. As long as it is quick, she thought. Then, to her surprise, he released her, pushing her towards the blonde one, who caught her arm.

She shrunk back, confused and frightened, but this new man made no move to bury his axe in her gut as she thought he might. Instead, he tightened his grip on her arm and began to lead her away from the flames and the smoke. 

What had just happened?

He yelled something over his shoulder at some of the other men. Of course, she did not understand.

There was a crash behind her, and a load roar from the fire, and she turned her head to see an entire half of the church’s roof give way, crashing into the flames below.

She heard herself cry out, tried to pull away, to flee, but his grip was like iron. He turned to glare at her, and then he spoke.

“Stop it, woman,” he said, in Saxon. She felt her eyes widen. How did this pagan know any of her language? He continued, his eyes cold and blue as the sea. “There’s nothing for you back there.”


	2. The Butterfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I'm a bit of a Sigurd fan. I don't think he gets enough love.  
> His brothers will make an entrance soon though!  
> Sorry for the wait.  
> Let me know what you think!

She was the only one who wasn’t crying.

Sigurd’s eyes dragged over her figure once again as he ran the sharpening stone over his axe, noting her straight carriage and the delicate way she clasped her hands. Her back was straight, her face conveying as much emotion as a blank mask. He wondered if she could control even the way her dress moved in the wind, if she choreographed even the beat of her heart.

The rest of the women slaves all showed evidence of tears on their faces, cheeks flushed and eyes reflecting terror. Several of them had been raped already; all had been claimed as someone’s property.

They represented the largest share of the profit from the little village; there had been very little in terms of valuables to find. However, they had managed to procure a fair amount of stored grain that would help to see them through the winter back home.

And besides, they had yet to come upon their main target: Hartlepool, a large town farther down the coast. Sigurd felt his heart start to quicken at the thought of an actual challenge for him and his warriors, and stood up abruptly, sliding his axe back through his belt.

“Sigurd?”

He turned to see Alva behind him, the wife of one of his men and an expert healer. She was smiling, holding a bowl of water and a bag of herbs.

“It seems that raid was a success,” she murmured calmly. “You are not hurt?”

Sigurd shook his head in disgust. “Of course it was a success,” he said. “These Christian townsfolk are more like sheep than people. One man tried to defend himself with a pitchfork!” 

She grinned. “Well, what do you expect?” she replied. “They don’t have Valhalla waiting for them.”

He nodded rather absently, feeling the weight of someone’s eyes on him. He turned, wind slapping him across the cheek, to see her eyes focused on him. It was difficult to decipher her expression, but it almost looked as though she was interested in their conversation. Several warriors milled around him, but when he met her eyes she looked away.

“Is that the dancer?” Alva asked quietly.

Sigurd turned back to look at her. “How do you know about that?” he inquired, eyebrows furrowed.

She set down the bowl on a stump and swirled a cloth through the water. “My husband told me about her,” she said. “He thinks she might be a witch of some kind.” She lifted the cloth to wipe the drops of blood from his face, and Sigurd reluctantly let her do it. Alva was one of the few people who could get away with treating him like a child, because she did not mean it in a condescending way. That, and because she would likely break his arm if he tried to push her away. Her mother had been a shieldmaiden, after all.

He shook his head. “If she was a witch, I do not think it would have been so easy to destroy her home as we did.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I suppose.” She dropped the cloth back into the bowl. “Do you want her?”

Alva asked the question bluntly and calmly, as if she were asking him about the fairness of the day. Sigurd shrugged.

“I want to see her dance again,” he said. “Then I want her in my bed.”

 

When his hand closed around her arm, gently, but with the promise of strength behind it, she realized that she was trembling. It was that same blond warrior, his curling hair brushing his shoulders. Now that it was daylight, she noticed that he moved with the easy grace of a very experienced warrior, the kind who could make a very good dancer. She hated him for that.

The girl barely noticed that he was guiding her away from the little camp, up and over a small hill until they stood on a piece of flat ground. The grass rippled like the sea in the wind.

Tears were threatening her vision, and she tried so very hard to push them back. She was not going to cry like a slave when he forced her. She tried to take a normal breath, but it caught in her throat, making her gasp out a little sob. At this, he looked a little surprised, sea-blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Shhh,” he murmured, reaching up to touch her face. She pulled back, shaking in fear.

His eyes flashed with irritation for a moment, and he took a slow, centering breath, like a man who is about to attempt something difficult. Slowly, he removed his hand from her arm, as if to reassure her. It did not.

“I am Sigurd,” he murmured in Saxon. “What is your name?” 

No. She would not give him her name. He would not gain this small victory over her. Deliberately, she looked at the ground, lips pressed together.

He gave a short-tempered little snort through his nose. “Fine, then,” he said. “Keep it. I will think of something to call you.”

She did not respond to this.

“Where did you learn to dance like that?” he asked. He sounded almost genuinely curious, and she finally looked into his face. 

“Where did you learn to speak like that?” she returned quietly, not sure whether this little rebellion would amuse or anger him.

It seemed to do neither, for he simply tilted his head at her and wet his bottom lip absently. “My father taught me,” he said. A small smirk touched his mouth. “I am glad to see that you are not mute.”

She looked away again, wondering why he was bothering with this. Was he dragging this out intentionally? 

“Are you going to tell me where you learned to dance like that?” Sigurd insisted. "I saw you dancing in your... church."

She still did not look at his face, glancing instead at the axe he carried at his side. 

He seemed to notice her glance, for he reached out again, only to have her jerk back once more, heart pounding.

“Oh, come now,” he said. “I’ve not brought you out here to kill you.”

She folded her arms protectively across her stomach, not reassured in the slightest. “What- what do you want with me then?” she dared to ask, her voice barely registering above the wind. 

“Dance for me,” he murmured eagerly.

She met his eyes in shock. “No…” she pleaded. “Please don’t make me do that!”

Sigurd looked bewildered. “Why not?” he asked.

She cast about frantically. “I…” How could she put in words how intimate it was for a man to see her dance? How her dancing was for her, not for others? She couldn’t. 

“I want to see you dance, girl,” he said, ominously quiet. His eyes had begun to look threatening. 

She shut her eyes, feeling a tear run down her cheek. It wasn’t enough that he’d burned her entire life before her eyes, he had to take her only source of comfort, use it for his amusement, stare at her legs, her breasts, as men always did. He would twist it into something it wasn’t. And she had no choice if she wanted to remain in his good graces. Her master's good graces. The thought turned her stomach.

“Step back, then,” she told him bitterly, composing her face once again. If she had to do this, she’d be damned if she allowed him to see it breaking her.

She swallowed, and closed her eyes.

The wind rushed around her, waving the tall grass against her wide, billowing skirt. Her hair danced about her face as the air keened around them. 

Emptiness, sadness, longing. 

She could feel the heaviness of these settling deep into the bones of her limbs, and she delved into it, let it fill her to the brim.

And she began to dance.

It was slow, an adagio, every movement filled with heaviness and longing. It was the only kind of dance she could find in herself, but it would do.

Four count développé arabesque, head under, arms extending slowly, hands soft as she came down into a long pas de bourrée couru, feet skimming the surface. She brought her hands down slowly before lifting them into swan arms, slow and simple, up, down, up, reach as she bourréed, head moving in time, still not looking at Sigurd in front of her. Two slow sissones, using her plié, arms extended in first arabesque, into tendu plié front, to relevé attitude arabesque, arms lifting behind her, balance, hold it… Repeat the sissonne sequence, breathe, keep breathing…

She tried to forget that he was watching, forget why she was here, and just feel. 

She couldn’t turn on this ground, there was no way. So she ended it simply, after more slow steps and another pas de bourrée couru, with a simple pas de cheval to the front into tendu, arms crossing in front, opening into a little ronde de jambe into tendu back, right arm following the motion of the leg, left arm following over her head, ending in a small bend back, head and arms extended behind, trying to turn out her tendu as much as she could. It was unconventional, certainly, and she didn’t know why she would end in such an odd manner. But it fit with the heaviness dragging at her limbs, pulling her towards the ground.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she stopped, stepped slowly out of the position, and felt the wetness on her cheeks. She had not thought it would affect her so, but all of the heaviness in her limbs had seemed to have been transferred to her heart by the simple adagio. 

It took her a minute to look up at Sigurd, bracing herself for the lust she knew she’d see. She’d never met a man who didn’t think dancing had no intimate connotations. It always sickened her, and it was why she danced alone.

But when she looked at him, he was just staring, his lips parted more in surprise than in lust. She didn’t know what to make of his expression, so she looked away again, trying to discreetly wipe away her tears under the guise of brushing back her hair.

Finally, she heard his feet crunch on the cold ground as he moved towards her, and she braced herself for what she knew was coming.

When she felt his hands cup her face, she closed her eyes in fear and shame, trying and failing to keep the tears at bay behind her lashes.

His fingers were surprisingly warm, and calloused. She waited for him to try to kiss her, but it did not come. Two heartbeats. Three. Four.

Then, to her surprise, she felt his fingers gently brushing at the tears running towards her lips. She had not expected such gentleness. Not from him. Not from any of them.

“Please,” he whispered. “Tell me your name.”

She stepped back, and he let her. She bit her lip.

“I am a slave,” she said. “Slaves don’t have names.”

He was watching her, and she couldn’t make sense of his expression. “I say that you will have a name,” he said. “Because you belong to me, and my slaves have names. And you are too exquisite to be nameless.”

She did not like the sound of that. “Are you- ” she took another shuddering breath. “Is this the part where you ravish me?” 

It took her an enormous amount of courage to get that out.

He was silent for a moment, and she thought she heard a smile hiding in his voice, one that he was fighting. “Not yet,” he said finally, staring at her with arms crossed and lips pursed. “I have never understood the appeal of forcing a crying woman. For now, I am content just to watch you dance. I think that Freyja must have gifted you.”

Her mouth fell open at that. “I thought… Who is... ” she stammered.

“I’m going to call you Fiðrildi,” he said suddenly, “If you won’t tell me your name.”

She still had no idea what to think. He wasn’t planning on forcing her? How was that possible? He was a Northman. 

“What does Fiðrildi mean?” she asked stupidly.

He grinned, which was more than a little off-putting. “It is the word for that little creature with the large wings,” he said. “The one that lands like a falling leaf. I’m not sure of the Saxon word for it.”

Now she was even more confused. “You mean… you mean a butterfly?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I think so. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”


	3. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Sorry that took so long. Let me know what you think!

She wished he would stop glancing over at her.

Even though she was merely sitting on the ground, wrists tied to a stake next to two other women, Sigurd kept on glancing over, his expression something she wished she could decipher, but made her very uncomfortable when their eyes happened to meet. He was sitting with a group of both men and women around one of the northmen’s many fires, eating several haunches of rabbit. The captives had all been given bread and water, and Sigurd had given her a large portion himself, though she’d been careful to avoid touching his hands as he’d passed it over. The bread still felt stuck in her throat. 

After he had made her dance for him at sunrise, Sigurd’s group hadn’t tarried long. The captives had been forced to walk nearly all day, over the heather-filled fields towards the sea, and then south along the beach. The wind there had been something fierce, and her hair had been blown from its braids to hang loosely about her face. She didn’t bother trying to braid it back into place. What was the point?

She knew that they must be heading towards their ships, and that thought was enough to fill her heart with terror, for no one carried away by these men across the sea ever returned. She closed her eyes against a sudden stinging and rested her head against the stake. Its rough splinters scraped her forehead. They were not in sight of any ships as of tonight, but this camp could not be all that far away.

Then, out of nowhere, a soft hand touched her wrist, and she opened her eyes to see one of the other tethered women looking at her, eyes red from hopeless tears. Alden’s daughter? Yes, she recognized her; her name was Irene, and she’d lived only a few doors down. 

Strange, she thought. I almost didn’t recognize her. 

She felt an odd numbness with that.

She realized that Irene was looking at her with something like concern, and that almost brought a smile to her face, for the girl was obviously in dire emotional straits herself.

Wordlessly, she grasped Irene’s fingers, squeezing the message “I’m all right, don’t worry,” into the smaller girl’s hand. 

Irene glanced around, her own messy brown curls brushing the neckline of her torn dress, before leaning closer. “Have you seen my mother?” Irene whispered. She could see the hope in Irene’s eyes, and hear the raw plea in her voice; the irrational hope that somehow, her mother was still there. She wished Irene had not brought up that subject; she didn’t want to think about mothers, for she knew perfectly well what had likely happened to her own.

What had Irene’s mother even looked like?

She looked down. “No,” she murmured back.

Irene’s eyes began to fill with tears again, and the other woman beside them looked at the pair curiously. 

“I… I knew it.” Irene whispered. “And I’m almost glad! It’s better that she’s dead. She doesn’t have to see my shame!”

The dancer felt herself draw back a little in shock, and then felt her heart twist with sympathy. She had no words for this, except to squeeze the girl’s hands again in the only comfort her bonds allowed her to give, hoping that the child wouldn’t start sobbing and bringing attention to them. 

Fresh tears were beginning to leak from the girl’s eyes, but thankfully she did not make a sound. Instead, Irene leaned against her chest, resting her head on her shoulder.

She didn’t know where her own tears had gone; she seemed to feel nothing but the cramps in her feet and the ever-present wind. 

She wished again that she could free her hands.

Her eyes flicked up, and, to her irritation, she saw Sigurd’s eyes on her again. Had she had the courage, she would have spit in his direction, for his stare felt like an intrusion on Irene’s grief. 

Deliberately, she turned her chin away. She breathed to regain her calm.

“Irene,” she murmured, looking at the curly head on her shoulder. “You must not show them any weakness. I don’t know whether they feel any sympathy.”

“I can’t help it,” the girl murmured. “It still hurts!”

Oh, God, she thought. Irene can’t be more than thirteen! She closed her eyes for a moment, dismayed that God would allow such things to happen to children like Irene. Where are you?! her mind screamed.

“You will go on, Irene,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say. She tried to say a quick prayer to ask God to protect her own virtue, but it felt practically pointless. “Not yet,” Sigurd had said. She knew that he hadn’t meant that to be frightening, but it had been. When would he decide that he’d waited long enough?

The other woman, catching what they were saying, bit her lip and looked away. She looked to be older, nineteen or so perhaps? She was not from their village. They met each other’s eyes for a moment.

Then she realized that she could feel Sigurd’s stare on her again, and angrily pressed her lips together. She wondered what on earth he wanted. 

She did not get the chance to find out, for at that moment, she heard hoofbeats and feet. It was coming from behind one of the small hills beyond the beach.

Everyone swung around, seemingly surprised, and for a moment, she felt her heart lift with hope. Were they Saxon men, come to attack and set them free? She craned her neck as best she could. But when the cause of the sound swept on foot and on horseback over the hill, her heart fell right back down into her stomach. 

It was more of the northmen.

Dear God, how many of them were there?!

With friendly shouts, a group of at least fifty poured into the camp, both men and women, bags heavy with plundered food and goods. Many of them moved forward to embrace their friends and gesture at her and the other captives, laughing and congratulating each other. And they had captives too.

Both of the other women beside her shrank back at the sudden cacophony, Irene lowering her head as if trying not to be noticed. 

Which was why she was the only one who noticed who else was with the new group. Or rather, what else.

A strange contraption rumbled its way across the beach, rather like an upright box on wheels, harnessed to a tired-looking horse. A man sat in the box, which was open at the back, his hair in dark braids and one arm resting negligently on the edge of the strange contraption. Even from several meters away, she could see a dark sort of amusement in his eyes, and spots of dried blood on his cheeks.

Sigurd had stood to greet the new arrivals, who were obviously the other half of his own party, and had embraced several of the men. However, when the strange box-on-wheels rumbled towards him, she saw his hand drift towards his axe.

That was more than enough to raise her eyebrows. 

 

As usual, Ivar was gloating.

To Sigurd’s dismay, one of Ivar’s men had informed him that the town they had raided had happened to have an unexpected, hidden plunder – two jeweled crosses and a small amount of coins. To no one’s surprise, Ivar wasted no time in informing his brother that his own raid had been quite a success, and had already snidely asked – in the two minutes since he’d returned – “what did my dear brother manage to capture, again?”

It was enough to set Sigurd’s teeth grinding in frustration, and he snapped back that, “You can’t eat jewels, idiot.” He then turned and stalked off before his brother said something that made him want to take his sarcastic head and slam it against a convenient tree, repeatedly.

Fortunately, Ivar let it drop, and did not attempt to follow him.

He knew that Ivar wasn’t stupid, that he knew that the grain and flour Sigurd had found would be a great help in seeing them through the winter here in England. But he also knew that Ivar would slam his own head into a tree before he admitted that to anyone. 

Sigurd momentarily regretted not bragging to his brother about the women they’d managed to capture, especially his strange little butterfly. His unusual prize might have set Ivar back on his heels for a moment, but Sigurd did not wish to make him interested in her. As the leader of their large party, Ivar could enforce his technical right to first pick of whatever they took, and if he was fascinated enough by the dark-haired dancer, and wished to irritate his brother further, he could try to take her. 

Sigurd did not want to give her up, and he certainly did not want to hand her over to his brother.

He knew the kinds of things Ivar did to women, especially the ones who could not or would not fight back, and Sigurd would not willingly let one fall into his clutches.

He glanced over to her as he turned the issue about in his mind. The tiny brown girl was still leaning against her, and her posture was almost motherly as she comforted the mousy child. 

No, he corrected himself. That girl, who, if memory served, was one of Gunvald’s prizes, was almost certainly no longer a child. His stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought, and he almost didn’t notice that his butterfly was looking at him again, brow furrowed. He met her eyes for only a few moments, but he swore he could discern exactly what she was thinking from her accusatory, sadness-filled expression: “Your people are monsters for doing this to a child.”

And he could also have sworn that she understood his silent reply, conveyed in the small expression of guilt he knew was coloring his face: “Were it up to me, it would not be the case.” Her understanding came in the form of the quick, sad look she gave him, before she looked away, resting her head on that of the young girl’s. She appeared to be staring into the distance at nothing, dismissing him entirely, and he had to stop himself from walking towards her to do… something. It felt as though half of him wanted to wrap her in a blanket and give her some hot food, and comb out her tangled hair, and the other half wanted to pull her away from the eyes of everyone there and slide that thin white shift from her body and… 

“Hey, Sigurd!” came a voice from behind him.

He jumped, startled out of his thoughts, and turned to see Alva standing behind him.

“Did I scare you?” she smirked. 

He narrowed his eyes in mock-anger, wondering if Alva and her teasing was what having a sister was like. “Best not to ‘scare’ a Viking man, Alva,” he said threateningly. “You might not like what follows.”

She just laughed at that, and then held up his lute from behind her back. “You’ve done enough sitting and looking contemplative for one day, Sigurd,” she said. “We need to celebrate!”

That made him smile, and he eagerly reached out to take the instrument. He’d be damned if he’d let his snarky little brother sour a successful raid.

Already, a large group of men and women had gathered around one of the bigger fires, some of them already looking somewhat unsteady, all of them looking at him expectantly. 

He accepted a cup of ale from one of the other men, taking a sip before turning his attention to his lute, which was slightly out of tune. After a few adjustments, Sigurd played a quick riff, enough to warm up his fingers, and felt a smile bloom on his face. 

Sure, he was a good planner, and he enjoyed a fight as much as the next Dane, but nothing stirred his blood like music and dancing. 

Tonight was the night for something lively.

 

Two songs and a finished cup later, and his blood was practically singing. Ivar was nowhere to be seen; for obvious reasons, he did not enjoy celebrations where anyone was up and dancing, and this made Sigurd nearly as happy as his own music did. 

As usual, Alva was one of the first to get up and dance, her husband Kirin watching her with almost predatory intensity as she swayed and spun to the music with several of her friends. Before Sigurd was even finished with the second melody, Kirin had grabbed her hand to pull her back to their tent, her giggle barely heard above the voices of the others as they sang to the chorus. Sigurd had smirked and shook his head.

He was reaching again for his lute to start song #3 when he happened to glance behind him. 

His butterfly, still sitting on the ground halfway across the camp, was staring at him with an expression of utter shock on her face, her rosebud lips parted. It occurred to Sigurd that she’d had no way of knowing that he could play music. Was that why she looked like a startled deer?

They held each other’s eyes for a moment, until she closed her mouth and looked down at her tied hands.

“That’s your dancer, isn’t it, brother?”

Sigurd’s heart fell as he heard the snide voice coming from behind him, but told himself not to turn around.

“Yes, Ivar,” he said, letting a note of boredom slide into his own voice.

His brother gave a small chuckle. “Well, then,” he murmured, “Why is she sitting on her ass?” He gave Sigurd a slap on the shoulder before shouting to two of the other men. “Go untie that slave and bring her over here!”

“Oh, great,” Sigurd thought, hurriedly getting to his feet.

The two men approached his butterfly, who began to look slightly afraid, especially as one of them drew a knife with which to cut her bonds. The small brown-haired girl beside her shrank back, but his Fiðrildi did not try to pull away.

The other warrior drew her to her feet, not unkindly, and attempted to march her across the camp, but the girl angrily drew her arm free and walked towards Sigurd on her own, stumbling a little. Belatedly, it occurred to Sigurd that she had been sitting in the same position for several hours, and that her muscles were probably cramped, but he admired her obvious nerve in the face of danger. Not for the first time, he wondered who she really was; what name her parents had called her that she refused to tell him. 

“Ivar,” he murmured, without turning around. “Remember that she is mine. I captured her; she belongs to me.”

Ivar chuckled. “She must be something special, hmm?”

Sigurd pressed his lips together and did not reply, for he was not sure how.

As the woman stopped in front of them, Ivar, who had pulled himself into a sitting position on a rock behind his brother, reached out an arm and beckoned her closer. He had not bothered to take off any of his armor or to wipe the blood from his face and hands, and Sigurd knew that his brother probably looked to the girl like a demon from her Christian stories. 

“Come here, girl,” Ivar said, and reluctantly, she took a step closer, glancing at Sigurd with something like apprehension in her eyes. He wished he could simply tell his brother to go to Hel, and take her hand to lead her away and find a warm place for her to sleep as he should have done hours ago, but he couldn’t. Ivar would take immense pleasure in putting his brother back in his place, which was technically below his own. Ivar led the army. Ivar was the superior tactician. And none of their older brothers were there to calm him, as they were to rendezvous with Ivar and Sigurd’s party in a few days. That meant that Ivar had the upper hand, galling as it was for Sigurd to admit.

He realized belatedly that the large group of people surrounding their fire, who had moments ago been singing and laughing, had gone quiet, and some of them had withdrawn away from this quickly tensing spot.

Ivar tilted his head, birdlike, to study the woman. “You dance?” he asked her in Saxon.

She glanced again at Sigurd before answering, who nodded reluctantly. “It is not dance as you might understand it,” she said quietly. Despite her hesitance, her body was straight, hands clasped gently in front of her. 

“Well then,” said Ivar, smirking. “By all means. I am in the mood for dancing.” And he gestured towards the ground, indicating that she should dance. “Play some music for her, Sigurd,” he said to his brother, his voice holding a hint of mocking. 

Sigurd had to interlace his fingers behind his back to keep himself from punching that smug look off of his brother’s face. He could tell that Ivar was enjoying this, enjoying making Sigurd think that he had an interest in his slave. The easiest way would be to give Ivar what he wanted and then get her out from under the weight of those malicious eyes.

“I…” the girl said, looking back and forth between the two men. “You will have to give me a moment… I have been sitting for some time.” She looked halfway to despair, but seemed to realize that it would be wise not to deny Ivar.

The dark-haired prince raised his eyebrows at her. “Fine,” he said. He turned around, beckoning another warrior to bring him some pieces of rabbit and bread. The girl rocked uneasily back on her heels, looking back and forth at the people watching her with discomfort. 

“Well, Sigurd?” Ivar asked, his mouth now full of rabbit. He gestured at his brother’s discarded instrument with his chin.

Sigurd gave him a glare, and ignored him, moving instead to touch the woman’s elbow. He was grateful that she didn’t try and shrink away, instead looking at him with big green eyes that still remained free of tears. 

“Fiðrildi” he murmured. “If you cannot, you can tell me. To Hel with what my brother thinks.”

Her forehead crinkled, and he saw confusion there. “He is your brother?” she asked softly. 

Sigurd nodded. “It is best to humor Ivar and give him what he wants. But I will not allow him to force you to do anything you do not wish to do.”

To his surprise, her lips curved into a very small smile… almost of understanding. “He is playing with you,” she whispered. “And if I do not comply, he will… take me away?”

She was quick, that was for certain, Sigurd thought.

“He may try,” he said. 

She bit her lip, and pulled her arm away. “He has cruelty in his eyes,” he murmured to herself, but loud enough that Sigurd caught the words. She sighed. “Play something short and lively,” she said, “40 bars, if you can.” There was resignation in her voice.

Sigurd looked at her for a moment, and then picked up his lute.

 

Despite the fact that she was dancing for his brother, Sigurd nevertheless managed to have his breath stolen away once again by his butterfly’s movements. He had no idea what to call this type of dancing, as she executed quick footwork with soft gestures and expressions, but it was enthralling. Nearly everyone in the camp had come over to watch, and they did so in complete silence. It took something else to make a group of slightly-drunk Vikings become this quiet, and the only sound was the soft thump of her feet on the grass, and her rapid breathing.

He played 40 bars, as she had asked, quick and lively, trying not to look at his brother’s face. If he tried to take this girl away from him, Sigurd was going to have more than words with Ivar. 

It was only after the last cord had faded away that Sigurd allowed himself to glance at his brother. To Sigurd’s surprise, his mouth was slightly open, and he was the only one of the group not to break into reluctant applause as she finished. “Interesting,” he said, expression calculating, “for a Christian.” He took a swig of ale, and looked away, seeming almost unimpressed. 

Sigurd breathed a sigh of relief. 

 

Several minutes later, he was pressing a cup of water into her hands in his tent, which she reluctantly took before shying slightly away. She’d seemed happy to follow him in order to get away from Ivar’s calculating stare, but her cheeks had lost a great deal of color when she’d stepped into the tent and laid eyes on his bed, or rather, the furs piled on the ground.

Sigurd stepped back, holding up his hands in an effort to reassure her.

She looked down, sipping at the water. Her hair hung in wild waves about her face, and the ties that fastened her shift at the neck had loosened, giving him view of the smooth skin of her shoulders and chest. He tried not to show how much that, combined with her dancing, had stirred him, made him want to feel that skin. He looked down at his lute, which rested by his feet. “Am I to sleep here?” he heard her murmur. 

He looked at her face again, and nodded. “It will be cold tonight, and my tent is warm.”

She looked up at him, her expression still nervous and almost bitter. “What of my friend? Irene? If I would be cold, she would freeze.”

Sigurd frowned. “She… will be with Gunvald. I cannot make decisions about what to do with her.”

His butterfly closed her eyes, looking sickened. It pained him to see that, to see her obvious hatred for his people. There was silence for a moment. “I’m sorry that Ivar made you do that,” he said, changing the subject. “But you still danced beautifully.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “I…” she finally looked at him. “You are a very good musician, and I just did a bunch of entrechats and cabrioles. It was not difficult.” She hesitated. “I… did not know that any of your people played music.”

Sigurd felt his eyebrows lift in shock, for he had not expected such a compliment from this woman he had taken. “Only some of us do,” he replied. But he felt himself smiling, and he saw the corners of her mouth quirk up as well.

“Fiðrildi” he said. “Come and share my furs.”

Her smile turned extremely guarded, and he realized that he’d chosen his words very badly, mentally giving himself a kick. 

“I won’t touch you,” he hurried to say. “I don’t want you to hate me. But we will both be warm that way.”

She looked at him, then at her feet, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Why does it matter to you if I hate you?” she asked softly. 

“Do you?” he asked.

She twisted her hands, and did not answer.

Sigurd sighed. “We both need sleep,” he said, trying to ignore the disappointment settling in his chest. “I have no interest in doing any more singing while my brother is fouling everyone’s mood.” He pulled off his boots and jacket, and sat down. “Come. I have no intention of harming you.”

She hesitated a moment longer, but then nodded self-consciously. Soon she was lying beside him, close enough that he could feel her warmth, but carefully not letting herself touch him. “I did not think that your slaves usually slept with their masters,” she said quietly.

He chuckled. “Perhaps. But you are not an ordinary slave.” 

She said nothing to this, though he could not tell if it was out of understanding or confusion, letting silence fall over the dimly lit tent.

A few minutes later, his mind on the edge of sleep, he dared to touch a single piece of her hair, gently. “Tell me your name,” he whispered.

She remained very still, but did not pull her head away. “I have nothing now, except my name,” she whispered. “Please let me keep it for myself.”

Sigurd sighed, for he understood. “All right,” he murmured in reply.


End file.
